


unbecoming (all that hate)

by Bartholomew



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, F/M, Graphic description of torture, M/M, Mostly S3 Compliant, No clean cut good and evil, Only choices, PTSD Sherlock, Pining, Sort Of, Unhealthy Relationships, but a lot of angst first, divergence from s4, grey morality, s4 fix it, there are no heroes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bartholomew/pseuds/Bartholomew
Summary: This is how Sherlock fades from his own life- with a series of choices and mistakes and it's hateful, simply hateful that he had come so far, only to lose it all now.---------------------------------------------------------Sherlock is Not Fine after Reichenbach, but the show must go on. He does his best for John and Mary, and ignores all his feelings as best he can. But, when Mary's secrets threaten to spill over and destroy them all, can Sherlock fix it in time?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll update tags as I write, and if anything that's not tagged needs tagging, please let me know! Hope you enjoy.

He pressed a shaking fist to the hole in his side, feeling the red rivulets of warm blood drip over his fingers. He grimaced, wiping his hands roughly on his bedraggled pants. Their dark color should hide the stains (for now) but the ripped stitches did pose an immediate problem, he had to admit. He couldn't afford to leave any trace, any careless bit of himself, here.

 

He couldn't afford much of anything these days.

 

But god, was he tired. A few weeks had turned to a few months, had turned into two years. Or was it three? He couldn't remember. He was too dizzy for that. The dizziness- was it from blood volume loss, or perhaps something more mundane, like forgetting a few too many meals? He couldn't recall. He was just too damn tired. At least the biting cold would stymie the blood flow, so there was that. A small silver lining.

 

The door to the club opened. There. At a whopping six foot three, and nearly twenty stone, the Russian was nearing the last (thank god, _thank god_ , nearly there) on his little list. _Nearly there_. His bearded face couldn't hide the nasty scar through his lips, turning the thin, pale things into a permanent sneer; it was the scar that led Sherlock to him. Too noticeable to hide. He was called Kratidese, which Sherlock rather thought sounded like a particularly vicious curse. His hands were as big as boxing gloves.

 

According to his dress (rich suit, shining oxford leather shoes, extravagant fur-lined coat), he was richer than what a simple meat butcher should be (a butcher! _really_ , now, don't be obvious), but according to his worn fingertips which glowed in the light of his cigar (callouses along the index finger { _trigger finger_ }, along the line of his knuckles { _brawler; torturer? uncertain_ } and inner palm { _knife? No, too big. Sword? No, wrong angle. Ah! Machete_ }), he had gotten his riches the hard way. The hardest way.

 

As well as he expected- no matter how injured, how _tired_ or _hungry_ or _whatever_ was plagueing him, he could still recognize a mob member. He still had that much presense of mind, at least. The Russian mafia, to be specific- it wasn't a very hard deduction. The coloring, the rough consonants; it all added up. It didn't, however, make it any easier. He had hoped, oh he had hoped, that for once things wouldn't get over complicated as he boarded a plane for the Ukraine. Worse than just complicated, this was going to be _messy_. He fingered the gun in his pocket loosely for a moment, before deciding against it. Not yet- the quieter, the better. Unfortunately, this meant following him to his hotel. At least he was in a decent sized suite; the thicker walls would be a comfort. All that was left to decide was how it would play out.

 

( _He was in black slacks and a white shirt with a waistcoat, his gun stored safely under a cloth napkin. "Room service!" he would call out. The man would advise him to bring his tray in and-_ no, that wouldn't work at all. What was he thinking? That was a trope out of one of John's terrible spy movies. The man was Mafia for christ's sake. No, no, he would have to be subtler-

 

_He was in tight leather jeans, and a tighter shirt, buttoned low enough to draw stares, swaggering up to the man as he dined in the ballroom, a sultry smile painted on his lips-_ no. He wasn't sure he could effectively hide the stitches and molted bruises along his side, wasn't sure he could even convince the man to take him upstairs; he hadn't seen the man with any partners, so-

 

_He was dressed in a bellhop's uniform, luggage rack trailing behind him as the Russian man made his way to the elevators-_ but no. What if he had men with him? There wasn't enough data!)

 

He would have to tail him for a few days; possibly a week. That would be the best bet; he tried not to be too disappointed. It had been a few years, after all. He could wait a few more weeks. He was nearly **there** , if he could just _be patient for once in his forsaken life-_ His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, keeping his eye on his prey. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

 

Kratidese drew long pulls off his cigar, waiting for his limo, no doubt. Or perhaps something else. Whatever it was, he didn't see Sherlock, of that he was certain. Sherlock was roughing it, dirty and disheveled as he had ever been, hair long enough that when he bathed, it brushed at the soft flesh beneath his shoulder blades. What he wouldn't give for a hot shower- or better yet, a bath; a long soak to ease his sore, trembling muscles. But even if he had managed to finish up the last two names on his list tonight, that wouldn't be possible. There were his stitches from the name before Kratidese- the man had tried to run Sherlock over with his Bently, the _toad_ \- and stitches this fresh couldn't be soaked for a goodly period of time. Then, there was the debriefing. And paperwork. After all this time, he still despised paperwork, but he had gotten better at it. Suprising what being dead could do to a man.

 

His phone buzzed again, soft enough that the falling snow would mute the sound, especially being as far away as he was from his mark, but Sherlock still had to repress his flinch. Homeless people weren't meant to have phones, no matter their circumstances; that's what the public believed, though he thought that it was a rather silly notion. Everyone could get a phone nowadays, why wouldn't people on the streets have one? He often communicated with his network that way back in London; it was quite foolish, and not a little offensive that people had such small-minded thoughts about some of the most useful of their populace.

 

Kratidese's limo pulled up, as Sherlock knew it would; it shielded him from viewing the man duck in, but when the engine grumbled and the thing pulled off, Kratidese was gone. Sherlock, though, being fastidious, looked the other way first when he crawled out of his box in the alleyway. He had made that mistake too- it was one of a depressingly long list of mistakes he had made, his carelessness nearly getting him killed more often than not. It also, most likely, had been part of why this list was taking so very long.

 

There was no one in that direction, thankfully, so he carefully directed his eyes to the departing limo, making sure to peek from beneath his lashes, and through his hair for safe measure. Obfuscation was better than decapitation, by any means. He had a moment to watch the car come to a turn, then take a left before it disappeared.

 

"No," he breathed.

 

The limo had turned left. The _bloody_ limo had turned fucking **left**. He fished out his phone, ignoring the messages ("Hawk?", then a few minutes later, "Ostritch."), instead, pressing the number's to his brother's direct line by memory. Mycroft picked up on the first ring.

 

"You are _not_ meant to be phoning me directly-"

 

"The limo _turned_ _left_."

 

There was a beat of silence.

 

"You're certain?"

 

Sherlock didn't bother with a snarky reply. He instead fished in his pockets for a cigarette, trying to ignore how his fingers trembled. Mycroft blew out a low sigh, the sound of his chair squeaking as he settled back into it tinny and distorted.

 

"Were you seen?"

 

Sherlock thought back.

 

"Not... by the Russian." He offered. He lit his cigarette and took a drag.

 

"Who?"

 

Sherlock sighed this time, rubbing his shaking hand over his brow.

 

"The last one- the Armenian."

 

Mycroft inhaled a sharp breath through his teeth.

 

"I thought he was-"

 

"No, _no_." Sherlock interrupted. "He is. He, um. He _very much_ is. Just... Before. He was on the phone. It- it wasn't clean. He hit me with his car, first."

 

"Damn it," Mycroft hissed, "the **phone** -"

 

"No, I checked after. He was..,” He hesitated, then powered on, “He was talking with his mother in the nursing home. It shouldn't have been-"

 

"Why in god's name didn't you tell the Angler?" Mycroft broke in, quietly seething. Sherlock tried not to feel like a child being reprimanded. It was, so far, a spectacular failure. Another to add to his list, he supposed.

 

“The Angler...” He felt his mouth shut. He pried it open again, forcing the words out like so much vomit. “ _Last time_ , with the American, she-”

 

“Oh, you stupid, _stupid_ boy,” Mycroft breathed, voice low.

 

“I know.” Sherlock replied, hating the way the guilt burned in his stomach. He took a long draw of his cigarette.

 

“This is not a _bloody_ **game** where the good _win_ and are _heroes-_ ”

 

“I know!” He snapped, feeling the utterly hateful, shameful prickle of tears begining to form behind his eyes. He wouldn't let them fall, he just simply would not. There was silence for a few beats.

 

“Address, **now**.”

 

Mycroft's tone was an icy, cold thing. Sherlock felt a shiver run up his spine, despite himself. He thought of all the things he could say ( _she's 93, for fuck's sake Mycroft_ -, or _do you even know how old the American's children even were?_ , or even _please, Mycroft. Don't.)_ , but instead he murmurred that he would text it to the Angler. That awful fucking woman.

 

Mycroft sighed in reluctant acceptance.

 

“Stay low, keep well away from the Russian, and the Angler will be in touch.”

 

Sherlock hummed in agreement, stubbing out the last of his cigarrete in the snow and pocketing the filter for later disposal. Mycroft rung off, leaving Sherlock alone with his guilt. He dallied for a few moments, before texting Anthea the address to the nursing home. He slid the phone into his pocket without looking at it, hating himself just that little bit more, and lit another cigarette. It was going to be a long night.

 

                                                                         *

 

Anthea contacted him well after five that morning, the two words in her terse text weighing on his chest.

 

[It's done.]

 

He lit another cigarette, ignoring the burn in his throat, and the harsh beating of his heart as he typed his reply.

 

[And?]

 

It took her nearly another hour to reply, the weak light of dawn starting to push away the boundary of darkness from his shack in the wilderness of the Ukraine. The soft buzz of his phone against the carton of cigarettes he had nicked nearly startled him into dropping the needle he was using to repair his stitches, and he quickly tied off the knot and snipped away the excess thread, before picking it up and reading the message.

 

[Not him.]

 

The reply felt like a physical blow. If it hadn't been the Armenian after all- then _what was the point_? What was the _bloody_ **point** of giving that awful fucking woman the mother's address if-

 

He cut himself off from that line of thinking. It would do him no good, really. There was nothing to be done. The woman was long dead. She had been, ever since he typed that address out on the phone- or, perhaps even before even that, when he had mentioned her to Mycroft. Damn him. Damn them both.

 

He clenched his fists to stop them from shaking, and held his needle over the flame of his little candle to sterilize it, then set about rethredding the needle. He splashed a bit of vodka over the jagged cut zig zagging it's way up his side with a hiss, then, after small bit of hesitation, downed the rest of it. Then he set to work stitching himself back together again.

 

 

                                                                       *

 

The next week, the Russian had resumed his normal routine, but the Angler was still pouring through the CCTV records, trying to parse why they had gone to the Mafia's head quarter's that night, and wouldn't allow Sherlock back on the streets. “Ostritch”, she said. _Keep your head down._ So he did. He sat in his hovel and ate tasteless military rations and slept when he could and was going to lose his fucking _mind_ if he didn't get out of that hut soon.

 

The bruises that painted his side were molting, going yellowish green around the edges and turning into an ugly blue black in the center as it healed. He left the stitches be the best he could, though the itching had set in in earnest, and kept it covered. He wiped himself down with wipes and played violin in his head for hours. He carefully did not think of John Watson as he did any of those things- if he did, then he would be well and truly lost.

 

Sometimes, though, he couldn't help it- the thoughts came unbidden, like a creature in the night stalking some unsuspecting prey. Thoughts like, _how will he still look you in the eye once he finds out what you've become?_ , and _John Watson can spot a murderer almost faster than you can- do you honestly think he isn't going to smell the stink of it on you?_ , and, most often, _will he even be there when you return?_. Though the first two were perilous, terrifying things that would circle in his head like sharks, it was the last that left him weak and trembling- because, as ruthless as Sherlock is with himself, it was the one with the highest probability. He had faked his death in front of John. He had watched him, crying in that graveyard and walked away, knowing his death was killing John.

 

_But_ , he would argue, much like a child who didn't understand the world just yet, _but I didn't kill him in the ways that matter. He'll forgive me- he always has._

 

It was never terribly convincing.

 

                                                                         *

 

The next week, Anthea texted him one word.

 

[Hawk.]

 

That was all he needed.

 

He set to work making himself look more disheveled, undoing all the small things that had made him feel more or less human, then set out. The Russian was back at the club's entrance, waiting on his limo, just as he had been before. When it came and carted him off, it turned right, towards the hotel, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He made his way to the buidling, arriving before the limo by way of backstreets and rooftops. This wasn't London, so he didn't know it as well, nor the location of the all seeing eye of the city's cameras, but he made do, keeping low and out of sight as best he could.

 

The Russian wasn't alone. When he exited the limo, four more burly men flanked him on all sides, and something twisted uncomfortably in his gut. Something was off, he was sure of it- but what? He raked a discerning eye over the men, but couldn't glean any more information than he had in his first go over (knuckles dusted with scars and callouses, suits cheap and identical, heads shaved and dark glasses on in the middle of the night, in winter. How obvious.). He fiddled with his phone in his pants pocket, thinking of sending a text. The image of the Armenian's mother painted itself over his mind's eye. No, it could wait. He could wait.

 

He slipped off of the neighboring roof, feeling the pull of his flesh against the stitches as he dropped from a decrepit fire escape and into the waiting snow below. He would keep watch, for now. Until whatever that niggling sensation in the back of his mind was came to fruition, or faded away like a half remembered dream. It was all he could do- at least, all he could bring himself to do. It would have to be fine.

 

He made his way back to his hut.

 

                                                                      *

 

After another week of silent surveilance, Sherlock could feel the urge to act crawling under his skin like ants; but still, he waited. He reported to Anthea the barest amount of details he could, and kept the rest to himself. He didn't tell her about the orphanage the Russian frequented on the weekends, or the quiet sums of money slipped to a certain soup kitchen staff member whenever the Russian felt he could afford it. He didn't inform her of anything that could possibly be used to harm any innocents. He may have become nothing more than a common murderer, but that didn't mean he didn't have his principals. And so, the time passed and Sherlock got a feel for the Russain and his routine. It was much better than the two page dossier with screen shots of locations and timestamps that he had been given on his arrival in the white winter of the Ukraine.

 

Still, there were some worrying aspects. The Russian was armed at all times, the telltale bulge of the gun hidden well, but not well enough to fool Sherlock. He was also rarely alone. Four men, on most days, swarmed around him, peering at any and all passerbys as if they would attack at any moment. Clearly, they were alerted to a threat- Sherlock hoped it was something trivial, like a turf dispute or perhaps even another hit against the man that had them so preoccupied. If it weren't, and the true reason was more nefarious than the normal goings on of a small criminal empire, then Sherlock would undoubtably be removed. He wasn't certain what would happen them, but his instincts told him that it was nothing good.

 

It was the middle of the next week before a decent opportunity presented itself.

 

The Russian had done his usually routine to a tee, then, miraculously, returned to his hotel alone. _At last, at last_ , Sherlock's thoughts sung. He had filched a key weeks before, before the limo had turned left, almost before the Russian had checked in. The conciere hadn't noticed until much later that the master key had gone missing. Sherlock had checked it on an empty room earlier that day, after stealing in through an unwatched fire exit, and the staff hadn't bothered to replace the Master Code. He had the proverbial keys to the kingdom. All that was left was the act itself.

 

Sherlock had eventually settled on a quick and dirty plan- a silencer, the key card, and a quick run to his hut. He would shoot as soon as the Russian got to the eye piece, open the door to confirm the kill, then leave and dispose of the gun in the river near to his shack. Afterwards, he would text Anthea and meet up at the rendevous point, and then.

 

Then back to London, to the last name on the list, and John's open smile. _Home_.

 

                                                                     *

 

It went exactly as he had planned, and though something about it bothered him (blinds shut, light on down the hallway to the en suit, the smell, there was something about the _smell_ ), he made his escape quietly and assuredly. He didn't bother mulling over it, letting the niggling sensation fade to the back of his mind palace; still something in him told him to mention it to Anthea. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he had been holding as he thumbed out a text.

 

[Cat.]

 

The response took less than a second, and sent his stomach tumbling to his feet.

 

[When and where?]

 

No code. No mention of confirmaton. None of the usual replies he had become so accustomed to in his years of clandestine shadow work. As a test, he thumbed out the reply.

 

[The usual place.]

 

There was, of course, no usual place. He didn't know his extraction plans until he got them. Anthea controlled all of it, away from any prying eyes. It was need only information, and neither he, nor Mycroft were privvy to them. Anthea, being the paranoid MI6 agent she was, most likely didn't even tell her combat team the information.

 

[No good. Site Comprimised. Your shack will be fine. 15 minutes ETA.]

 

Fifteen minutes. That wasn't a hell of a lot of time to do any preperations. All of his files were there, all of his information; he had to get it before the person imitating Anthea got there and used it to their own ends. He ran, ignoring the stitch in his side, but keeping to the back alleys and residential roads that were more or less abandoned. As he ran, he dialed Mycroft's number, holding the flip phone between his shoulder and cheek as he hopped over fences and filth tinged snow drifts. Mycroft picked up on the third ring.

 

“You simply cannot keep ringing whenever-”

 

“Angler's compromised.” Sherlock bit out between deep, gasping breaths. “Someone else knows.”

 

Mycroft took a breath.

 

“Who?”

 

“Possibly one of yours.” Sherlock replied, nearly sliding on a curb at the outskirts of the town, near the forest. “Possibly one of hers or their's.”

 

“And the Russian?”

 

Sherlock slowed as he reached the wood, mentally counting down the minutes in his mind's eye and mapping his way to the river.

 

“He's a _non issue._ But, Mycroft, they know where I've been staying.”

 

“No, don't tell me.” Mycroft responded quickly. “This **mess** is already too much contact between you and I. I can't afford to step in.”

 

Sherlock picked his way through the underbrush, noting the snapped twings underfoot with distatse. Ten or fifteen men? This may end up in an all out manhunt. A cold shiver worked his way down his spine. He had hidden the shack well, but perhaps not well enough. Only time would tell.

 

“You may have to.” He murmured, keeping his voice low and his ears open.

 

Mycroft sighed. “ _Legwork_.”

 

“Indeed.” Sherlock replied, spotting the river. He vassilated for a moment, before fishing his gun out, followed by the silencer and slipped them beneath the icy waves of the rushing water.

 

“I'm ditching the phone. I'll find a way to contact you within the week. If not...” He trailed off, but his meaning was clear. He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “You'll take care of him, yes?”

 

Mycroft was silent for a moment, before he cleared his throat. “It is a promise, brother mine. Leave no trace, if possible.”

 

“I know.” Sherlock replied, and he swallowed and swallowed and swallowed.

 

“Take care.” Mycroft intoned with all the solemnity of a soldier on his death bed. Sherlock couldn't reply, so he simply hung up the phone. He slipped the battery from the back, and then the SIM card. He smashed the sim to tiny shreds of microfibers, then paid the same attention to his phone. Once it was an unrecongizeable blob of wires and electric acutrement, he slipped the lot beneath the water and watched it flow downstream, out of sight.

 

                                                                         *

 

There were over a dozen men approaching his hut, but luckily none had spotted it yet. Sherlock sucked in a slow breath, and thanked his lucky stars that he had been prepared for all contingencies before making his move. The nestled gas containers by the front door were all the accelerant he needed. All he had to do now was to strike the proverbial match. He held a rock that he had pried loose from the river's edge, brushing his thumb over the surface as he shivered in the cold. He had stripped off his old clothes at the river's edge and had donned a new outfit he had filched and stored near the river for this eventuality. Then he had scattered the old clothes as far as he possibly could afford to travel in the woods, to throw off his scent. And it was a good thing he had. They jangling of dog collars was loud in the otherwise silent forest.

 

It was now or never.

 

He tossed the stone at the dense ivy he had piled on the shack, praying for it to strike wood. He, for the first time that night, got lucky. The resounding crack was enough to get the cabin found, and enough like movement inside to tempt a single soldier into opening the door.

 

Sherlock timed his retreat with the boom of the trap he had set, hoping that the noise and confusion would be enough to cover his escape, and he was very nearly right.

 

Unfortunately, 'nearly' wasn't enough. The mafia outfit wasn't as hopeless as he had assumed, and the thing that had been bothering him since the Russian's hotel room made itself known.

 

(The _smell-_ perfume! Channel No. 5, how could he have been so _stupid_ , so unforgivably _slow_ -)

 

He caught a wiff of it on the breeze, and it nearly stopped him in his tracks. Had he been followed? He cursed to himself as he zig zagged through the unfamiliar terrain of the forest, barely noting the whir of a distant helicopter.

 

Of course he had been followed, because _of course_ he had.

 

The perfume on the breeze grew stronger, along with the musty scent of sweat. Whoever it was must be very close indeed. Perhaps he could stage an ambush? He ducked behind a tree, breathing heavily. There was no time! Where could he run, where could he hide? It all had gone so badly so quickly. He had charted out an escape route beforehand, of course he had, but it was all rather useless with Anthea out of the picture, wasn't it? Stupid, _foolish_ -

 

The enemy was closing in. He slowed his breathing, then ran and ran and _ran_.

 

But it wasn't enough.

 

They had him cornered. But, for the second time that night, Sherlock had gotten lucky. They weren't firing their weapons, so he had a chance. If they _needed_ him, if they _needed_ his information-

Yes, that must be it. They would take him alive, and they would torture him. He would have to endure, because torture was infinitely better than death. He had a **chance.**

 

All that was left was for him to take it.

 

He licked his too dry lips, and warily raised his hands above his head, then sank to his knees. _I will survive this_ , he thought savagely as the foot soldiers closed ranks, guns up and at the ready- _and I will go home. I will_ _ **not**_ _give up, not now_. His nostrils filled with the perfume as a woman's laugh filled his ears, and pain slammed into the back of his head- then the world went dark.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the weird font problem! Reuploading to try and fix it. for those of you who haven't read this chapter last time I tried to upload it, some depictions of torture within, and this is where I start diverging from canon. I'm not gonna rehash all of s3, just putting in some backstory for the plot. Hope you enjoy!

There was no light in his cell- of all the myriad of complaints he had about his current situation, the all encompassing darkness should have been the least of them, surely? He was a grown man after all; not some whimpering child crying in the dark for fear of the shadows and the shapes they made, for heaven's sake. The cool, blank nothingness weighed on him heavily none the less. It felt too much like being wiped from existence, like becoming some none-being, shrouded in shades of onyx and night and beyond even the slightest hint of warmth; it was too close to death. And, by god, he was close. 

He couldn't be certain how long it had been since he had last choked down anything close to resembling a meal, and in the days he had been in the tiny cell, he hadn't had anything to eat nor drink. Even if the room weren't too small to even crouch in, he wouldn't have been able to pull himself to his feet with how dizzy he was becoming. And oh, how very cold everything was- hateful in it's normalacy, for all that it was bound to get much, much worse. Enforced starvation, as it were, was, in fact, the least of his problems, if he was right. They hadn't done much beyond capturing him and tossing him in the small, windowless room; but that meant they were planning on something far more dangerous. Perhaps they were going to try and ransom him back to the British government?- but that seemed unlikely, especially given that he was off the books in every respect; the man he had been was dead, and he had become a non-entity, a blank page with a gun. 

All the better for a hitman, he supposed.

No, most likely his first assumption was correct- they were going to torture him until he cracked. Amateurs. Torture for information was a monumentally stupid idea- one that had been disproven time and time again, but obviously these brutes hadn't gotten the memo. Sherlock had a giddy moment of a half imagined intellectual debate of the merits of the neurological impairments that 'enhanced interrogation' caused, and it's effects on the veracity of the truth verses the simpler and more effective uses of garden variety bribes, but he was interrupted by the sound of a door clanging shut in the distance. It was the first thing he had heard in days. He dragged himself by the elbows off the stained matress and in the direction of the door for a better vantage point.

“-or so the boss says.” A gruff voice said, slightly slurring the harsh consonants of the Russian tongue in the tell-tale beginings of a drunken stupor.

“Well, you know the boss is always right.” Another voice answered, lighter and with less resonance, his Russian slightly over pronounced in a way that screamed 'foriegner'. Their voices, combined with the sounds of their footfalls, (one set heavy, indicating someone of roughly 1.8 meters tall and 17- no 18 stone, likely the drunk one based on the scraping of his left show just there; the other set light {with a slight dance like quality to it, as if he were caught between a step and a skip} indicating someone with a lighter build, but no less solid for it. Most likely 1.6 to 1.7 meters, and possible 12 and a half stone, wet), told Sherlock that he wouldn't be able to take them down, not in the state he was in. (There was something else, too- a sort of muffled jingling sound, much like the sound of metal on metal; a bag, perhaps? A bag of tools? The echoes in the hall made it hard to identify properly.) He mused to himself about the end of the drunk one's sentence- what, exactly, had their boss told them to do? Nothing good, surely.

The dancing one seemed to be excited, judging by his goodnatured, glib reply and his odd half dance down the empty hallway. Sherlock rather thought that whatever had the smaller man in such a good mood didn't bode well for him at all; the jingling of the tool bag drew nearer. Sherlock swallowed, then scooted back on his rump back to the matress and covered his eyes so as not to be blinded if and when they opened the door. He didn't have to wait long.

The heavy metal door clicked as a lock was disengaged, the tinkle of keys giving Sherlock barely enough warning to curl further in on himself and lower his center of gravity. Just because he was likely to be taken and tortured, didn't mean he had to make it easy on them. The door creaked open, inch by inch, and Sherlock fought the urge to gnash his teeth. Just come on already! He was dying for some stimulation, anyway. Physical torture would be better than this empty box with it's fetid stench and dark, dark, dark.

Or so he thought.

It was less than an hour later that he revised his previous opinon. They had dragged him by his arms, their hands an unbreakable manacle wrapped around each bicep as they carted him through winding tunnels. Sherlock had the presence of mind to memorize the route they had taken, and all doorways were thoroghly disected by his knowing gaze (that's another cell, there's a latrine, a shower, a breakroom that was filled with the stench of cigarettes and cheap libations); it was quite obvious he was underground, from the layout and lack of windows, to the caged lights on the walls, yellowed with age. Perhaps this had once been mining quarters, or a nucular fallout shelter- at any rate, it did make the situation far more dire. There would be no filching a phone and messaging Mycroft; there would be no reception in this cess pit. If you haven't heard from me in a week...

He didn't need to deduce which room was the torture chamber, as it were- the stench was deduction enough. It hit him when they were still three rooms down the hall from it; it was a wall of blood, sweat, piss and shit, a foul and malignant odour that was strong enough to have been a physical thing. He had been stoic up to that point, wordlessly appraising his surroundings and allowing himself to be half carried, half drug through the empty corridors, but that smell. It triggered something animalistic in him, some deep seated need to get away, as if he were a lamb to the slaughter- as if he were prey. He began to struggle mindlessly against his captors, drawing laughs from the two men as he tried to dig his heels into the worn concrete beneath his feet, tried to yank free from their hands, tried to do anything, anything at all to get away.

It took him far longer than it should to realize that he was hyperventalating; he tried to calm himself, knowing that he was expending far too much energy as it was, energy he just didn't have, and that he would likely fall unconcious if he didn't stop acting like a child and fucking calm down-

“Little frightened rabbit, struggling will do you no good, yes?” The drunken man's breath washed over his face, mixing with the putrescence of the room and making Sherlock gag. The man purred, his Russian turned low and soft, a weapon in of itself. Sherlock pried his eyes open (when had he closed them? He couldn't afford to close them, he had to see, he had to know-) and fought the panic welling up in his throat.

The room was small, not quite as small as his cage, but small none the less. There were shackles bolted to the floor and ceiling, chains dangling in the stale air. Bloodied hay was spread methodically throughout the room, soaking up the worst of the stench and the fluids from his predecesors- easy to clean and dispose of. Maybe they weren't so amateurish after all. Somehow, this thought brought him no comfort, and as they shackled him to the dangling chains, he tried with all his might to affect a mask of indifference.

The smaller of the two men dropped his bag on a low table, not far from the dangling chains, and began to neatly lay out gleaming tools; no doubt in an attempt to intimidate Sherlock as a form of psychological warfare, to heighten his fear, making the act itself worse, in the long run. It, unfortunately, was working rather well. Sherlock took a careful breath, then another and another, until he was no longer on the verge of unconciousness... more or less. The drumming of his heart slowed as he breathed, and he struggled to find something, anything to work in his favor; he carefully did not look at the table. 

Now that the two men weren't bracketed by blinding light or busy dragging him all about creation, he could visibly confirm his earlier deductions about them. He was right on the nose as to their heights and weight (the smaller one may have been slightly leaner than he had previously assumed, but he hadn't been able to see how heavy the bag he had been carrying was with sound alone- he was brilliant, but he wasn't psychic), and from what he saw of their pant legs and shoes earlier, combined with the full picture, he felt he had a decent grip on the two as people. Awful, murdery, torturing people, to be certain, but people none the less- and people had weaknesses.

The taller one had the tell tale scars of a brawler or a bouncer, but none of the finess one would need for fine tuned torture, as it were. The hairs on his pants legs showed he had two small dogs (wirey fur; terrirer?), the spots of unshaven hair behind his ears and in the rolls of the back of his neck showed he was unmarried, and the loose sole of his left shoe showed he had a gambling problem. The drinking problem was probably a result of the gambling, or perhaps the other way around? He had wise eyes, however, and that made Sherlock pause; smart enough that doing anything risky while he was in the room was inadvisable. Another thing was clear, by looking at him, at his dialated pupils and quickened breath- this man, he liked to watch. Sherlock repressed a shiver.

The smaller man was tricky, even Sherlock had to admit. On face value, he had very little in the area of tells; his face was carefully bland and partially obscurred by a thining beard, and his clothes, while not threadbare, were clearly worn and a cheap brand. His hands were hidden by leather gloves, but the creasing patterns showed he had held several slim objects for long enough a time that the leather was forever marked. The tan hide of the gloves had also been scrubbed, and smelt faintly of industrial bleach. That, in itself, was telling. He was the torturer then. No wonder he had been so excited. His boots weren't nearly as clean as the rest of him, splattered with mud and had woodchips stuck in the grooves; (carpentry as a hobby? No, he wouldn't have the patience for it- look how he's practically vibrating out of his skin right now. Need more data.), but for all the man's blank facade, there were chinks in it, chinks that Sherlock could see, could pull at- things that Sherlock could use.

Sherlock did not breathe a sigh of relief, but it was a near thing. He was finally, finally getting somewhere. For the first time in days, he felt a gentle stirring of something, beneath his breastbone. If he had to put a name to it, he might have called it hope. For now, all he had to do was endure; simple enough. He'd been stabbed, drowned, chucked off of rooftops and, more recently, hit by a bloody car. He could handle a small spot of torture, until an opportunity presented itself. It would be child's play.

And it was, for the first ten minutes or so.

The bigger man and the smaller one exchanged a few quiet words that Sherlock couldn't quite make out, but that had included the words, “play”, “not yet”, and, perhaps most worrisome, “tenderize the meat”. Then, the brute who had likened him to a sort of rabbit, began punching him. It was all very... cliché, really. Sherlock was a little irked at himself for getting so worked up; perhaps the items on the table wouldn't be used at all. It certainly seemed that he had given this criminal duo more credit than they deserved. Perhaps the Russian he had shot was their proper torturer, and this was an understudy? Whatever the case, Sherlock was more than capable of handling a miserly beating.   
He barely regestered his lip splitting, nor the blood that dripped from a possibly broken nose. When the brute started on his stomach, it did pull on his stitches uncomfortably, but it wasn't all bad. Though, when the man's knuckles found the edge of a broken rib, Sherlock had to bite down on his cheek to keep from crying out, but all in all, it was easy to ignore. It certainly hurt, but it wasn't new- it wasn't frightening. It was unimaginitve at best, and tiresome at worst. 

Then, after exactly ten minutes, the brute stepped back and wiped his bloody knuckles on a cloth the smaller man provided with a smirk. Sherlock felt something nervous flutter in his stomach, like a jittery bird.

“I need to piss and get a drink, ya? Don't get to the good stuff before I get back.” The bigger man said, tossing the cloth towards the end of the table.

“It depends,” the smaller man answered, a smile beginning to stretch across his face, “on how long you take.”

The bravado Sherlock had been feeling moments before leaked out of him, but he forced his mind to still. So far, they had been about as frightening as a low hanging doorjamb, but if they were to get truly ugly, now would be the time. And, if Sherlock were to act, it had to be while the stronger of the two was out of the room. He raked his eyes over the smaller man, noting any details he might have missed on the first time around. He noted a spot of grease high on the man's cheek- lipgloss, a girlfriend? Clearly on the outs, as she hadn't bothered to kiss him on the mouth, and the smell of sex didn't linger on him the way it did on John after he had gotten a leg over, despite the fact that the man hadn't showered before carting himself here to do god know's what-

“So, my boss- well, let's just say my boss's boss, wants you in one piece, more or less.” The man sighed, lips pursed in a moue of petulance. “Which takes a lot of fun off the table, but that doesn't mean I can't get creative, now does it?” 

-and the bulge in the man's pocket might have been a phone, or if Sherlock was very, very lucky, they could be the keys-

“So, I was thinking, why not start with something small? Something you won't even miss if you're as valuable as my boss's boss thinks you are. Won't that be a laugh?”

-but no, the larger man had the keys, Sherlock knew this, of course he knew this, but he still hoped, hadn't he, because if he was busy hoping and thinking then he wouldn't have to pay attention, now would he? He wouldn't have to see oh god, are those bloody pliers?

The man smiled again, wide as a chesire cat's.

“What I'm really getting at is how well do you like your back teeth?”

*

The four mollars he took were symetrical in their abscence, one from each side, upper and lower, and he lined them up precisely on the table top, even going as far as to wipe them down individually so that they gleamed white in the dull light. The man then filled a small bucket with bleach and dunked the pliers liberally, before wiping them with a clean towel that he had kept in the pockets on the side of the bag. Sherlock tried not to groan as drool and blood leaked from his aching mouth. He had been as quiet as he could be under the circumstances, even as he acknowledged that it was foolish of him. People don't torture people if they don't, on some level, like it. To hold back his screams would just make things so much worse for him. Next time, he told himself, wearily, I will scream. Because there will be a next time. 

The bigger man had entered just as the first molar had given up the proverbial ghost, so to speak, and had held silent sentinel as Sherlock had suffered; Sherlock had noticed, but there was nothing to be done for it. It wasn't if the man had come anywhere near close enough to have been useful to him. Sherlock tried to spit the excess blood out of his mouth, but found it increasingly hard to get air into his straining lungs. My arms, he realized through the throbbing pain in his head and jaw, they shackled me with my arms above my head. With my arms like this, my lungs cant fully inflate- I'm going to slowly suffocate. He tried to do the math in his head, how long, how long had it been- but he was so tired, and he had lost so much blood, and he was so cold, wouldn't just be easier to just- No. He had to keep his eyes open. He had to stay awake.

“Aw, it looks like our little rabbit is having a tough time, eh, Ivan?” The smaller one laughed, prodded at Sherlock's bruised side. He groaned, limbs twitching, before falling still.

“His lips are turning blue.” The bigger man sounded slightly nervous, and he kept shifting from foot to foot. Sherlock tried to look more pathetic than he already was, but there wasn't much more pathetic he could look, to be honest. He was bruised and bloody and emaciated and currenty suffocating- if that wasn't pathetic enough, then there was nothing he could do for it. Thankfully, the smaller man seemed to agree.

“Well, this was more of a introduction anyhow.” He grabbed a handful of Sherlock's hair, dragging his head upright as he smiled that bland smile he had first worn- his eyes, though. His eyes burned. “Tomorrow, little rabbit, the real fun begins.”

*

The next few hours were spent curled into a miserable ball in his cage, the pain of his swollen mouth keeping him from sleeping in a hellish sort of demimonde; not enough pain to pass out, but too much to do anything other than suffer. Sherlock felt that that might be a sort of metaphor for his entire life, up to a point. He pressed his blazing cheeks to the filthy floor, relishing the cold against the throb of his mouth, and seethed. How asinine he had been. How utterly, magnificently naieve. He wasn't just being an idiot, he wasn't thinking- of the two, the latter was the worst insult he could think of.

Sherlock had let himself hope; how hateful. How could this situation he had put himself in not lead to torture? How could he even be so fucking stupid to-

A clang in the distance. Footsteps; heavy, left shoe scraping against the concrete floor. Were they back for him already? Unease coalesed into his stomach, a frigid lump of malaise twining with his lower intestine. But, instead of hearing the jingle of keys and the click of the lock turning over, instead there was a scraping noise of metal on concrete, then a small opening at the bottom of the door, flooding the tiny room in light. Sherlock blinked before pulling himself to a sitting position, watching warily as the man's knees came into view, and then- 

Food.

A small platter with a simple metal bowl, and a fist sized portion of bread laying on a tray that clattered on the floor with a clang. The man's hands pulled the bowl and bread from the tray and shoved them through the tiny opening; liquid sloshed over the side of the rim and painted the dirty ground of his cell, and Sherlock had never been so hungry in his fucking life.

He had a half mad thought to thank the man for bringing him food, but before he could give voice to the notion, the man straightened and the opening closed. Sherlock scrambled after the bowl, unerring in his pursuit even in the cloying darkness that permeated all of his senses; briefly, he toyed with the notion of drugs in the soup, but he dismissed the thought as quickly as it had come. If it were drugs, well, that wouldn't make one ioata of a difference, now would it? He'd still eat; it was that or starvation, and of the two, he knew there wasn't a choice, really. Hell, even if they'd poisioned the damn food, he'd still eat.

So, with a proverbial crossing of his fingers, his picked up the bowl and drank; the first sip was heaven and hell entwined- the warmth of the soup made his jaws ache terribly, but god, it had to be the best soup he'd ever had. He knew, logically, it was just due to his hunger increasing the sensitivity of the taste receptors on his tongue, and changing the way he perceived the stimuli of the food itself, but it didn't change the fact. He had to physically force himself to lower the bowl between tiny sips so as to not over power his stomach which had undoubtably shrank during his enforced abstinence.

He allowed small bits of the bread between sips, tearing strips off of the roll and dunking them liberally in the soup to avoid chewing altogether. It was a working process. Any piece of veg he came across, he mushed to the roof of his mouth with his tongue, then swallowed as best he could and little by little, the bowl was drained. He didn't feel the slightest twinge of embarassment when licking the dredges of the bowl like a dog- his pride had no place here, really.

Pride was another luxury he couldn't afford.

He had forgotten how draining it felt, having a full stomach. He felt weighed down, like an anchor skimming the bottom of an endless ocean. He rarely afforded himself the chance, even before the Fall; his relationship with food had always been tenuous at best, and he'd be lying if it didn't chafe a bit, even now, being slowed down inexorably by the food in his stomach. But there was nothing for it; he had no clue when his next meal would be coming.

If, his mind supplied, if you get a next meal. He let the thought hover in his mind for a tremulous minute, then drop to his overfull stomach and lower, to his very bones. This, this is what he had been avoiding since that night in the woods, the inevitable end game. They'd torture him for whatever info they thought he had, and then-

“All fairy tales end. All hearts are broken,” his brother supplied, sitting next to him in the library of his mind palace. Mycroft crossed his legs and took a generous sip of the whisky in his hand, the light from the fireplace elongating his shadows and making his face appear more lined, older than his years. The man looked like a funeral procession- all hard set lines, mouth in a moue of worry and sadness, his eyes, glittering in the flickering light, ringed with dark circles that seemed more like the hollows of a skull's than a living person's. Sherlock scoffed with a bravado he didn't really feel.

“Repeating yourself, Mycroft?” He answered, of course refering to Irene Addler's not death, and their conversation in the morgue.

Mycroft shifted, the two ice cubes in his drink clinking loudly, louder than they would have had any of this been real. It felt like a warning.

“And you? Are you not?” His brother replied, raising an eyebrow. He was, of course, referring to Sherlock's own words to Irene Addler, after all the mess she had brought behind her had dissovled like so much smoke. Sentiment, a defect found on the losing side. Sherlock found he couldn't respond, so instead he looked into the flames of the fireplace that looked so similar to the one in 221B; a momento of home. When he finally had the courage to look up, his brother was long gone, with only the ring of moisture from his glass left behind.

* 

Sherlock only realized he had fallen asleep when he was awoken with a bucket of water tossed in his face. He gasped and struggled upright, only to be captured by the meaty fists of his tormenters locking around his biceps once more.

“Feeling up for a bit of a chat?” The small man chirped, his glaringly sunny disposition at odds with the tools he was holding. When Sherlock's eyes fell on the pliers, the man shook them at his paling face and winked co-conspiratorily. 

“If you're particularly chatty, we might not even need these- what do you say?”

Sherlock felt like spitting in the man's face, but instead he affected a look of hopeful terror and nodded with all of his might. The man laughed, then motioned for the bigger man to bind him to the floor instead of the ceiling. Ivan, Sherlock thought. The smaller man had called him that the day before- something to remember, at the very least. It was good to put a name to a face.

The smaller man placed a large basin of water in front of Sherlock as Ivan securd his arms to a u-shaped metal protrusion in the floor, then cracked his knuckles. Sherlock knew where this was going, and it wasn't very good for him, but that was something of a pattern of late. He made note to inhale as little water as possible; in his weakened and malnurished state, if he contracted pnuemonia, it would be the end of him.

The smaller man motioned with the pliers to the water.

“You know how this works, yes? I aks you questions, and if I don't like your answers...” He trailed off with a shrug. Sherlock nodded, though it wouldn't make much of a difference. He didn't have the answers that the man would like, and the answers he did have would mean death for those he cared about if he was foolish enough to spill the beans. It was going to be a very trying next few hours indeed.

*

The questions they asked, were of course, unanswerable for Sherlock, which meant he spent a good portion of the next few hours with his head underwater.

Who do you work for?  
How much do you know about our operations?  
Were you the man who killed Kratidese?  
What were your plans, before you got caught?

These were all expected, if a little on the boring side. And the water boarding wasn't so bad, really. Sherlock had trained his lungs to withstand nearly six minutes underwater, so as long as he flailed a bit, they thought they were doing more damage then they actually were. All in all, it wasn't nearly as bad as he had been dreading. He kept a scared look on his face and gave the two men what sadistic impulses they wanted, without losing any bit of himself in the process. A bit of quid pro quo, so to speak. He even got some refiling done in his mind palace, tuning out most of the questions with practiced ease- so when there was finally a question that startled him, he lost his composure, a bit.

“What do you know about Moriarty?”

“He's dead.” Sherlock spat, his Russian coming out immpeciably despite his missing molars, and wrinkling his nose in disgust at the mere mention of the Spider's name. The thin man blinked owlishly for a moment, then threw back his head and laughed and laughed and laughed. Sherlock untwisted his mouth and stared. Once the man had finished, he wiped fake tears from his eyes. 

“Oh, Ivan, we've got a funny one. But, I think this might be a little light for our friend here. Let's try something else.”

*

When they tossed him back in his cell later that night, Sherlock laid on his stomach and just breathed. That had been... Well, not as bad as he feared, but. Still, not ideal by any means. They started with cigarette burns, dusting his shoulders and calves with deep pockmarks, until the room was filled with the smell of burnt flesh and menthols. Then, the thin man had pulled out a glaring purple whip- obviously not intended for torture. The man had answered his unasked question with a laugh and a blithe, “Well, the boss's boss wants you in one piece, so I'm getting creative.” He had frowned, afterwards, when the thing had bruised Sherlock's back to the point of swelling and broken the toy.

“Well, it's not like the misses was going to use this anytime soon anyways.” He had muttered, then softer, to himself. “At least not with me.”

Sherlock made a note of it, because it might be useful. When the man had pulled the belt from his waist and judiciously applied it to the swelling of his shoulder blades, he seemed to be taking out his frustrations on Sherlock's back; though the skin had split and ruptured in several places, it was worth it for more information of his captors. He kept telling himself that as blow after blow landed, until he had screamed himself hoarse.

When it had finally finished, they had drug him back to his hole and slammed the door behind him, leaving him to the dark and the quiet. Selfishly, childishly, Sherlock allowed himself a few tears; it was fine, really, he was fine. He could handle this. It was just a natural release of pent up chemicals whirling around in his head; besides, he was alone, and no one would see. It was all fine.

*

Sherlock awoke later that night to gunshots. He raised himself as far as he was capable, wincing as the scabs on his back cracked and stretched, and listened. One shot, then silence. He waited for something else, anything else, telling himself he wasn't hoping for any sort of outcome, that he wasn't actively imagining Mycroft swarming this hellhole with agents armed to the teeth and that he would soon be free, finally, finally, free-

The door opened.

It wasn't Mycroft. 

But, it also wasn't Ivan. It was someone he had never seen before, a nasty scar running through his eyebrow, dark glasses covering his eyes and a cheap black suit draped over his hulking frame. The man's pants and shoes were freshly washed, giving very little in the way of clues, but Sherlock thought he might know who he worked for anyways. An image of the Russian's bodygaurds swam in Sherlock's mind's eye. He gulped and allowed the man to grab him by one arm and half walk half drag him back to the Room. Whatever this is, Sherlock thought, letting his eyes close, please let this be the end.

And in a way, it was.

When they bound him with his arms up again, Sherlock had to use all of his considerable acting skills to not give the game away, not let the smaller man realize who sat in front of him, bundled in furs and cigar smoke.

Mycroft.

He had never been so glad to see him in his life, truly. What happened to letting me go after a week, brother mine? Sherlock thought with more gratitude than he thought he had in him. He could have danced. He was so elated, that he didn't mind the first hour of the pipe. Or the next. By the time it was nearing the fourth hour, he was starting to get a little peeved, to be sure. But, he was going to live, to go home- a little lead pipe on his back was worth it, wasn't it?

Not long after, it became clear he would have to make his own opening.

He used everything he had learned about the slim man, with his little patience and cheating girlfriend to get him out of the room, if only for five bloody minutes-

And it worked.

Sherlock would have been surprised, if he weren't in so much pain. As soon as the door fell shut, Mycroft was upon him, snatching his hair in his fist and snarling in his face.

“Filthy spy. You think you can mess with the Spider's Web, eh?” Mcroft slurred, his usual impeccable Russian slurred into something laden with hate and liqour; he pushed his face within inches of Sherlock's as he shook Sherlock lightly. Once he was close enough, he breathed a word into Sherlock's ear, soft enough that if Sherlock hadn't been waiting on it, he would have missed it entirely.

“Soon.”

“Please,” he mock begged, not flinching when he felt something metal slipping behind his ear, just below where Mycroft's hand was still lodged in his hair, “I know nothing, I swear it to you. I am just the middle man.”

Mycroft shook him three times in quick succesion, before releasing him with a grunt and tossing his hands in the air. Three minutes. 

“You think you are going to fool me with this shit, eh? You think I am some fool?” Mycroft paced, before crowding into Sherlock's space again. He flinched backwards, dragging his shoulders up by his ear and catching the slim metal rod between his shoulder and cheek. Mycroft grabbed him by the opposite ear and wrenched him up, allowing Sherlock to curl further inward on himself. There. The rod slipped into his sleeve. He writhed as if in pain, moving it to the bend of his elbow. Almost, almost.

Mycroft slapped him, hard, twice, before gripping his shirtfront and growling in his ear. “I will gut you like a fish, little spy, do not test me.”

Two minutes. 

He had to improvise, before the smaller man came back- there was not way he could transfer the lock pick like thing. So, he did what he could- he headbutted Mycroft in the nose. Mycroft staggered back, like a reeling fish, then roared just as the door opened again to reveal three men in suits. Two, Sherlock recognized, one he didn't. 

One minute.

Mycroft grabbed him by the shirt front and hauled him in the air, finally allowing the lock pick to slide into Sherlock's waiting hand. He raised his fist to strike, then- another gunshot, and the mafia thug fell. Sherlock heard faint sounds of gunfire in the distance.

Go time.

His shackles were old, and quickly dealt with with the pick. Once he was loose, Mycroft handed him a firearm.

“Are you alright to stand, brother mine?” Mycroft said, shooting out the two cameras lurking in the corners of the room.

“Adrenaline should carry me. Extraction?”

“Helicopter.” Mycroft answered, nodding to the men and pressing to the wall on the side of the door.

“Legwork,” Sherlock smiled, falling behind him.

*

Later, in the helicopter, when Sherlock was wiping the blood off his face and neck and a medic had stitched up what could be stitched and applied medicine to what couldn't, Sherlock couldn't resist asking.

“Whatever happened to one week?”

Mycroft looked at him with a groan.

“Do shut up.”

Sherlock smiled and waited for the morphine to kick in. He was going home.

“One last thing, brother mine. There's a terrorist attack imminent in London; you've been assigned the case, so I do hope your vacation won't keep you from your obligations.”

Mycroft said, deliberately indifferent. Sherlock heard the double meaning, clearly- You're reinstated, for now, but there are hoops you will have to jump through.

“And the last name on our list?” Sherlock slurred, his eyelids weighed down with narcotics and too long without sleep.

Mycroft hummed from far away, the sound traveling light years to reach Sherlock.

“Moran? He's a ghost in the wind. It's done.”

It's done.

Sherlock slept.


End file.
